


cook the books

by thunderylee



Category: Kis-My-Ft2 (Band)
Genre: Canon Universe, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2019-01-15 18:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12326457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunderylee/pseuds/thunderylee
Summary: Tamamori gives Miyata a spatula for Christmas.





	cook the books

**Author's Note:**

> reposted from agck. written for trope bingo (mind games) and donation.

Miyata blinks at the gift Tamamori presents him with. “Thank you?”

Apparently that was not the right thing to say, because Tamamori huffs and folds his arms. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to pretend.”

“I like it!” Miyata exclaims, waving the purple plastic spatula with the bright yellow bow wrapped around it in his flailing. “I just don’t understand it.”

That isn’t good either. Now Tamamori is narrowing his eyes and Miyata wonders if he’s missing something super obvious here. “Well, call me when you figure it out.”

Miyata stares at the spatula as Tamamori walks away. They exchange Christmas presents every year, usually something practical or fun, but never something as mysterious as this. It feels like a code that Miyata needs to crack in order to make Tamamori happy, and he definitely wants to do that. Even with all of his quirks and idiosyncrasies, Tamamori is his best friend. Has been for years.

The other members are no help. Nisen at least have the decency to pretend they don’t know anything while Kitayama tells him straight out that he’s not telling and Miyata needs to get his shit together. Fujigaya is marginally more sympathetic and says that Tamamori would be mad if he said anything, and Miyata knows better than to go to Yokoo.

After a couple days of dead ends, Miyata does what any twenty-five-year-old man would do in his situation—he asks his mother. Miya-mama takes one look at the purple spatula and gasps, clutching her heart and leaving Miyata even more confused.

“Toshiya,” she says, grabbing Miyata’s hand. “That man _loves_ you.”

“What?!” Miyata gasps, and everything seems to just stop. Everything but his heart, which is suddenly pounding in his chest for reasons he doesn’t quite understand. “It’s just a kitchen utensil.”

“Just a kitchen utensil,” Miya-mama scoffs. “I had no idea I raised such an oblivious son. He just got his own apartment, right? This means he wants you to be a part of it. A part of his _life_ , Toshiya. Get a clue.”

“A part of his life,” Miyata repeats, still dumbfounded at the concept that Tamamori has feelings for him. The beautiful group center Tamamori Yuuta, who blossomed into Japan’s heartthrob but for whatever reason stays by Miyata’s side—wow, Miyata really is dense. “Thanks, Mom!”

“Be careful,” his mother warns. “Tamamori-kun’s heart is precious. Don’t accept it if you aren’t ready to take care of it.”

“Yes, Mom,” Miyata says, still in a daze as he walks away. It takes him until he gets to his room to realize that he’s still carrying the spatula against his chest, practically cradling it, and while his first instinct is to call Tamamori, his mother’s words ring in his head. He has some thinking to do.

It was never what everyone thought. Fanservice is fanservice; Miyata and Tamamori have always just been friends. They have that type of friendship that makes the fans love to speculate more. But that’s all it ever was. At least as far as Miyata had known.

He thinks the entire way over to Tamamori’s place, never mind the late hour and their busy schedules because this is more important than any of that. It’s not a short commute by any means, giving Miyata ample opportunity to run through several possible speeches for when he gets to Tamamori’s door, but all he does is grab Tamamori by the shirt and kiss him before he even has his shoes off.

Tamamori gasps but doesn’t push him away, proving Miyata’s mother’s declaration tenfold when his arms automatically wrap around Miyata’s waist, pulling him closer. Miyata isn’t that familiar with the layout of Tamamori’s apartment yet, but he trusts Tamamori when the taller man maneuvers them across the room. The backs of Miyata’s knees hit the couch and he falls backwards, sinking into the couch cushions as Tamamori’s weight lands on top of him, heavy and so, so comfortable.

They should probably talk about this, but in a way they already are. Miyata’s hands slip under Tamamori’s shirt to feel his defined abdominal muscles and Tamamori breaks their kiss long enough to yank his shirt over his head. Miyata opens his mouth to speak, but Tamamori has other ideas and shoves off Miyata’s shirt as well, dropping his head to kiss all over Miyata’s throat and collarbone until Miyata forgets how to make words.

Tamamori straddles his lap properly and Miyata arches when he feels the bump between Tamamori’s legs, grinding down pointedly until Miyata’s just as interested. It’s Miyata who reaches for Tamamori’s belt first, but Tamamori’s right behind him and they strip each other right there on the couch, both of them warm despite the cool winter night. It feels even better when they rub together without any barriers, Tamamori reaching down to take them both into his hand.

“Do you know how to do this?” Tamamori asks, the first words spoken since Miyata arrived, and Miyata shyly nods his head. “Seriously? You’ve done it with a man before?”

“What? No!” Miyata exclaims, suddenly defensive. “I’ve just seen a few movies, is all.”

“Weirdo,” Tamamori mutters, but then he moans when Miyata’s hands slide around to grab his ass. “Fine, whatever, just do it.”

“Do it…” Miyata trails off, belatedly realizing the meaning of Tamamori’s words. When he does he practically scrambles for his pants, retrieving the items he’d stopped off to buy on a whim and damn is he glad he did.

Tamamori’s noises are quiet, a byproduct of living at home for so long no doubt, but that just motivates Miyata to make him louder. He gently stretches Tamamori with one finger, then two, paying close attention to Tamamori’s breathing pattern so that he knows when he finds a good spot. That ends up not being necessary when Tamamori clutches to his arms, burying his face into Miyata’s neck to let out a moan that goes right between Miyata’s legs.

“Tama-chan…” he breathes, stroking Tamamori’s hair with his free hand while Tamamori pushes back against his fingers. Miyata slips in a third and Tamamori pauses, letting Miyata take over the slow, careful penetration until Tamamori’s trembling on top of him. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” Tamamori replies, softer than he’s ever spoken to Miyata before, and Miyata’s heart fills with so much warmth that it overflows into the rest of his body. He knows at that moment that he loves Tamamori too, nosing at Tamamori’s cheek until the latter turns and kisses him with only a bit of halfhearted protest

This kiss is rushed and sloppy, but so, so hot as Miyata chases Tamamori’s tongue around his mouth, his arousal soaring as Tamamori starts to roll his hips. He moves like he’s already riding and Miyata can’t hold back his desperate whine for exactly that, choking on his next breath when Tamamori reaches down to take Miyata’s cock firmly in his hand.

“Want it,” Tamamori hisses against Miyata’s lips, and Miyata wastes no time pulling out his fingers and reaching for a condom. Tamamori helps him roll it on—if helping means continuing to stroke him even after Miyata applies more lube—and takes over from there, guiding Miyata’s cock right between his legs and inside him while Miyata watches in amazement.

“Oh my god, Tama,” Miyata says, struggling to keep his eyes open because the sight of Tamamori riding him is so beautiful, so perfect.

“Do you call everyone you fuck by their last names?” Tamamori asks, his tone casual but a bite to his words that hits Miyata straight in the heart.

“Yuu…ta?” Miyata offers, preening at the way Tamamori’s eyes soften in approval. “Yuuta, Yuuta, Yuuta, I love you, Yuuta.”

It just slips out, but Tamamori only pauses for a second and Miyata’s so focused on Tamamori’s body clenching around him that he hardly pays it any attention. He does notice Tamamori’s eyes darken, his face flush more and his rhythm quickening, moans becoming louder and more frequent as he presumably finds the right spot and bounces as much as he can.

Now it’s Miyata’s turn to help, giving a tentative thrust upwards that has Tamamori nodding and whispering his name, the first one. Naturally that has Miyata doing it again, over and over to hear it more and more, sounding nicer to Miyata’s ears than his favorite song.

It all feels so good that he doesn’t expect it when Tamamori grabs his hand, wrapping it around his own cock that makes everything so much tighter, and Miyata lets out a groan of his own as his hips snap with more force. Tamamori’s breaths are completely vocal now, nothing but incoherent moans as his body starts to tremble, signalling his orgasm.

Miyata watches him come, fascinated by every crease in his face and sound that falls from his lips. He’s so engrossed that his own release surprises him, hands flailing around for something to grab onto to stay grounded, settling for Tamamori’s thighs. He’s still out of it when a firm weight drops onto his chest, but his arms just wrap around it instinctually and Tamamori’s quick, hot breaths on his neck bring him back to reality.

“Did you mean what you said?” Tamamori asks, his voice more air than depth, and Miyata finds himself nodding before he’s fully processed the question.

“Did you?”

“Did I what?” Tamamori asks, his rapid heartbeat thumping against Miyata’s chest where it had just been calming down. “Oh shit, did I say something in the heat of the moment?”

“No, but…” Miyata trails off, gathering his thoughts as he tries to remember the events leading up to tonight. “The spatula.”

“The spatula?”

Now Tamamori just sounds confused, and Miyata wishes he could see the other man’s face to gauge his reaction for sure, but neither one of them has the strength to lift Tamamori’s head. “You gave that to me because you want me to be a part of your life, right? My mom said it was the same thing as a confession.”

“Your mom is more of a hopeless romantic than you are,” Tamamori scoffs. “I gave you that spatula because I want you to cook for me. You’ve been saying that you wanted to cook for me forever, and now that you won’t ruin my mother’s kitchen I decided to let you do it. I was so mad when you didn’t remember.”

Miyata blinks at the rotating ceiling fan and Tamamori’s bare shoulder right in front of his eyes. “So you don’t have any feelings for me?”

“Well…” Tamamori sighs, pressing his nose into Miyata’s neck and inhaling deeply. “We did just do it. And you smell really good. So I guess you cooking for me can be like a date.”

“Okay,” Miyata quickly agrees.

“But I already put out, so it better be amazing,” Tamamori rushes to add. “Stop grinning.”

“I’m not grinning,” Miyata lies.

“I can _feel_ you grinning.”

“Don’t get so close then.”

Miyata starts to push Tamamori off of him, but Tamamori clings to him with both arms and legs so tightly that Miyata can barely move. “Shut up, just shut up.”

“You love me~” Miyata teases him.

“I hate you,” Tamamori grumbles, not letting up one bit.

“I love you too,” Miyata replies, sneaking an arm out to stroke Tamamori’s hair again. “I’ll make you something tasty with your love spatula.”

“You better,” Tamamori tells him, and any response Miyata would have is cut off by Tamamori’s mouth on his.


End file.
